We live in an age that is dominated by superhero culture.
Everywhere you look, superheroes have made their presence known, for better or
for worse. We see superheroes on lunchboxes, shoes, and t-shirts; we see
superheroes in videogames, film, and television shows; most importantly, we see
superheroes flying and gallivanting about in the pages of our beloved comic
books. Superheroes are everywhere these days.
This is great and all, but even for a dedicated superhero fan like myself, it’s a little exhausting. I grew up on films like Tim Burton’s Batman, Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy, and Mark A.Z. Dippe’s much detested Spawn. I even remember the first comic that introduced me to the medium: my brother’s copy of Batman #500 (the Joe Quesada variant no less). When I was six years-old, my dad spent far too many hours and an almost endless supply of loonies winning me a three-and-a-half foot Batman: The Animated Series plush doll from the Canadian National Exhibition; he saw me crying as he struggled to win the carnival game, and I have no doubt that that encouraged him to win the stuffed Bat-doll. I have been obsessed and enthralled with superheroes since I first laid my eyes on them.
There came a point a few years ago when my interest in superheroes declined. I never stopped enjoying them completely, but I knew that I needed to expand my comics reading oeuvre. That is when I discovered creator-owned comics. With creator-owned comics (A.K.A., in most cases non-superhero comics, but not always), anything – any idea, format, genre – is possible. Superhero comics, as much as I love them, are tied down by various genre conventions, as well as their extended histories, so the option of exploring new themes and creative avenues outside of what is considered appropriate to the genre isn’t plausible (i.e. DC will never publish a Batman comic focused on explicitly exploring Bruce Wayne’s sexuality). In other words, superhero comics often have to play it safe when it comes to experimentation. Creator-owned comics, on the other hand, are free to do as they please.
For reasons of accessibility, I’ve chosen to discuss collected editions of mini-series and original graphic novels (as opposed to delving into on-going series). Everything you need to know about the following comics is contained within the editions themselves (there aren’t 70+ years of publishing history with which to intimidate or deter you!), so jumping into each comic is easy and lacks the scariness of trying to jump into something like The Amazing Spider-Man #681 without having previously read a single issue of Spider-Man.
This is great and all, but even for a dedicated superhero fan like myself, it’s a little exhausting. I grew up on films like Tim Burton’s Batman, Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy, and Mark A.Z. Dippe’s much detested Spawn. I even remember the first comic that introduced me to the medium: my brother’s copy of Batman #500 (the Joe Quesada variant no less). When I was six years-old, my dad spent far too many hours and an almost endless supply of loonies winning me a three-and-a-half foot Batman: The Animated Series plush doll from the Canadian National Exhibition; he saw me crying as he struggled to win the carnival game, and I have no doubt that that encouraged him to win the stuffed Bat-doll. I have been obsessed and enthralled with superheroes since I first laid my eyes on them.
There came a point a few years ago when my interest in superheroes declined. I never stopped enjoying them completely, but I knew that I needed to expand my comics reading oeuvre. That is when I discovered creator-owned comics. With creator-owned comics (A.K.A., in most cases non-superhero comics, but not always), anything – any idea, format, genre – is possible. Superhero comics, as much as I love them, are tied down by various genre conventions, as well as their extended histories, so the option of exploring new themes and creative avenues outside of what is considered appropriate to the genre isn’t plausible (i.e. DC will never publish a Batman comic focused on explicitly exploring Bruce Wayne’s sexuality). In other words, superhero comics often have to play it safe when it comes to experimentation. Creator-owned comics, on the other hand, are free to do as they please.
For reasons of accessibility, I’ve chosen to discuss collected editions of mini-series and original graphic novels (as opposed to delving into on-going series). Everything you need to know about the following comics is contained within the editions themselves (there aren’t 70+ years of publishing history with which to intimidate or deter you!), so jumping into each comic is easy and lacks the scariness of trying to jump into something like The Amazing Spider-Man #681 without having previously read a single issue of Spider-Man.
By Jeff Lemire
Top Shelf Productions
Essex County is
one of the few comics to make me cry. The focus of this series is on character
development first and foremost. Originally published serially as three volumes,
the Collected Essex County, without being coy, collects the entire trilogy of
Lemire’s magnum opus. Essex County, both
thematically and visually, focuses on what it means to be human and the
complexity of emotions. In other words, Lemire’s first critical success is a
highly humanistic endeavour.
In “Book One: Tales From the Farm,” we meet Lester, a young boy of ten years. We quickly learn that Lester is influenced by the world of superheroes (sound familiar?). Lester embodies the youthful vigour of all comics readers, and it is easy to empathize with him (as well as wish him the best in learning to fly!). Lester is displaced in Essex County, Ontario living with his Uncle Ken, whom he helps manage the farm in his free time outside of school. It’s no secret that Lester is unhappy with his situation and that he yearns for more in life. “Book One: Tales From the Farm” is a story about facing adversity and embracing the life we never expected; it’s about accepting our powerlessness and learning to deal with the inevitability of human sorrow.
In “Book Two: Ghost Stories,” Lemire introduces us to a similar story of an individual learning to deal with his pain. “Ghost Stories” follows Lou LeBeuf, who we meet initially as an elderly man living his remaining years out on his family farm. Lou lives in the past, constantly longing for days gone by. In his youth, Lou was a professional hockey player who attained moderate success. While he was talented at the sport, Lou lived in his brother Vince’s shadow. In the beginning, the two are a force to be reckoned with (both in terms of their brotherly bond as well as on the ice), but after a series of unfortunate events, the two couldn’t be more separate and isolated from one another. The uncertainty of the future plays a large role in “Ghost Stories,” and yet again Lemire tugs on our heart strings with his fictionalized hometown tales.
In the final volume, “Book Three: The Country Nurse,” we follow Anne Quenneville, the nurse of Lou LeBeuf from Book Two. Again Lemire subjects us to characters who struggle to get by, who deal with relatable emotional dilemmas. Like the first two volumes before it, “The Country Nurse” continues Essex County’s humanist approach by pitting Anne and characters against unexpected hardships of daily life. Lemire, intentionally or not, shows us that suffering is a natural occurrence in human life. This is not to say that Essex County is by any means sadistic or pessimistic, however, on the contrary: we learn through Anne that owning up to our problems and dealing with them that we can attain some semblance of peace (versus shying away and running from our emotions). Anne is a symbol of hope, which is surely what the residents of Essex County need in their world of pain. The three volumes become interconnected through the masterful plotting of Lemire, which makes the reader want to reread Essex County upon reading the last page.
Lemire’s visual style is truly unique. The art of majority of Lemire’s work is simple and minimalistic, yet it has this quality to it that makes the reader do a double take. By superhero comics standards (i.e. the DC house art style of say, Jim Lee, David Finch, Jason Fabok, etc.) Lemire’s black & white art might be considered lacking in detail and depth, but that really isn’t necessary for the type of story Lemire is telling. Lemire’s distinct art also has a freshness to it; it stands out amongst the sea of endlessly detailed (superhero) recycling. The juxtaposition of the blacks and whites creates shadow-like figures, especially with the black shading of environments; everything feels haunted and somehow empty or hollow. Rather than filling up each panel with excessive detail, Lemire uses blank white space to express this emptiness in his characters and the world in which they live.
In “Book One: Tales From the Farm,” we meet Lester, a young boy of ten years. We quickly learn that Lester is influenced by the world of superheroes (sound familiar?). Lester embodies the youthful vigour of all comics readers, and it is easy to empathize with him (as well as wish him the best in learning to fly!). Lester is displaced in Essex County, Ontario living with his Uncle Ken, whom he helps manage the farm in his free time outside of school. It’s no secret that Lester is unhappy with his situation and that he yearns for more in life. “Book One: Tales From the Farm” is a story about facing adversity and embracing the life we never expected; it’s about accepting our powerlessness and learning to deal with the inevitability of human sorrow.
In “Book Two: Ghost Stories,” Lemire introduces us to a similar story of an individual learning to deal with his pain. “Ghost Stories” follows Lou LeBeuf, who we meet initially as an elderly man living his remaining years out on his family farm. Lou lives in the past, constantly longing for days gone by. In his youth, Lou was a professional hockey player who attained moderate success. While he was talented at the sport, Lou lived in his brother Vince’s shadow. In the beginning, the two are a force to be reckoned with (both in terms of their brotherly bond as well as on the ice), but after a series of unfortunate events, the two couldn’t be more separate and isolated from one another. The uncertainty of the future plays a large role in “Ghost Stories,” and yet again Lemire tugs on our heart strings with his fictionalized hometown tales.
In the final volume, “Book Three: The Country Nurse,” we follow Anne Quenneville, the nurse of Lou LeBeuf from Book Two. Again Lemire subjects us to characters who struggle to get by, who deal with relatable emotional dilemmas. Like the first two volumes before it, “The Country Nurse” continues Essex County’s humanist approach by pitting Anne and characters against unexpected hardships of daily life. Lemire, intentionally or not, shows us that suffering is a natural occurrence in human life. This is not to say that Essex County is by any means sadistic or pessimistic, however, on the contrary: we learn through Anne that owning up to our problems and dealing with them that we can attain some semblance of peace (versus shying away and running from our emotions). Anne is a symbol of hope, which is surely what the residents of Essex County need in their world of pain. The three volumes become interconnected through the masterful plotting of Lemire, which makes the reader want to reread Essex County upon reading the last page.
Lemire’s visual style is truly unique. The art of majority of Lemire’s work is simple and minimalistic, yet it has this quality to it that makes the reader do a double take. By superhero comics standards (i.e. the DC house art style of say, Jim Lee, David Finch, Jason Fabok, etc.) Lemire’s black & white art might be considered lacking in detail and depth, but that really isn’t necessary for the type of story Lemire is telling. Lemire’s distinct art also has a freshness to it; it stands out amongst the sea of endlessly detailed (superhero) recycling. The juxtaposition of the blacks and whites creates shadow-like figures, especially with the black shading of environments; everything feels haunted and somehow empty or hollow. Rather than filling up each panel with excessive detail, Lemire uses blank white space to express this emptiness in his characters and the world in which they live.
By Jason
Fantagraphics Books
In stark contrast to the serious
tone of Essex County comes along
Norwegian cartoonist Jason. Known for his anthropomorphic characters and dark,
deadpan humour, I Killed Adolf Hitler is
one of his more accessible, if not less depressing stories. The basic premise
of the story is as follows: assassins are legalized and people use them to
eradicate anyone and everyone, whether it be annoying neighbours, boring
spouses, soon-to-be-wed parents, or disappointing bosses. Whatever the reason,
you can pay a professional to off whoever you desire.
One day, the nameless hit
person protagonist receives a strange request. A scientist attends his
appointment with the assassin and holds up a photograph of Adolf Hitler and
asks for him to be killed. The assassin protagonist, at first speechless by the
odd request, quickly accepts and embarks on a time-traveling quest to kill one
of the most heinous genocidal figures in human history. What the assassin doesn’t
anticipate is getting stuck in the 1940s, while Hitler makes his way to the 21st
century… It’s obviously an absurd “what if?” story, but that doesn’t make it
any less amusing and exhilarating a tale.
Jason’s use of
assassination in this book is outrageously funny, yet it has a satirical
quality to it. He seems to be suggesting that humanity prefers a quick fix to
our problems; rather than work them out, why not take the shortcut and have
them taken care of for us? Jason proposes through I Killed Adolf Hitler that if murder-for-hire were actually a legal
service, people wouldn’t hesitate to have anyone who mildly frustrates them
terminated.
By Ted McKeever
Image Comics
Image Comics
If you’ve
ever seen a David Lynch film, you will know that Ted McKeever’s work is often
considered the comics equivalent. If you’ve never seen any of Lynch’s work, or
read one of McKeever’s bizarre miniseries, fear not. What I’m getting at is
that McKeever’s style is highly surreal and strange. It tends to become so
weird that you wonder if what’s going on is part of a dream or some other
non-reality.
Miniature Jesus took me by surprise. It was my first experience with McKeever’s work and I picked up issue #1 on a whim. After finishing the miniseries, I wasn’t entirely sure what I had read. But that’s what interested and still continues to about the series (and majority of McKeever’s work). What happens in the book is part hallucinatory adventure and part unending nightmare. Chomsky is a recovering alcoholic. He is roaming around in some unspecified mid-western state for no apparent reason (reason, by the way, does not apply to this story). Chomsky deals with a demonic id figure, which is symbolic of his withdrawal gnawing away at him. Along comes an 8” Jesus, who acts to combat the demonic presence of Chomsky’s psyche. McKeever puts a new spin on the Angel vs. Demon dilemma, with uncomfortably disturbing results. Nothing in this comic is conventional and McKeever ultimately leaves us with some existential advise. Not advise perse, but rather an inconvenient truth. It’s really up to the reader what the comic means to them.
In terms of the art, McKeever’s stylings are as strange as the subject matter. McKeever’s traditional style is this uneven, asymmetrical character and environment design that syncs up with the unconventional storytelling. In his more recent work, McKeever has incorporated some photorealistic character designs, most notably of protagonist Chomsky here in Miniature Jesus. While placing himself (at least visually) within the book as the physical model for Chomsky, McKeever draws him in a highly detailed, realistic manner; Chomsky looks like portraitized in most panels. As the story develops, McKeever jumps back and forth between the photorealistic style. Chomsky begins to look more like the other characters: less detailed, somewhat cartoony, and relatively deranged.
Miniature Jesus took me by surprise. It was my first experience with McKeever’s work and I picked up issue #1 on a whim. After finishing the miniseries, I wasn’t entirely sure what I had read. But that’s what interested and still continues to about the series (and majority of McKeever’s work). What happens in the book is part hallucinatory adventure and part unending nightmare. Chomsky is a recovering alcoholic. He is roaming around in some unspecified mid-western state for no apparent reason (reason, by the way, does not apply to this story). Chomsky deals with a demonic id figure, which is symbolic of his withdrawal gnawing away at him. Along comes an 8” Jesus, who acts to combat the demonic presence of Chomsky’s psyche. McKeever puts a new spin on the Angel vs. Demon dilemma, with uncomfortably disturbing results. Nothing in this comic is conventional and McKeever ultimately leaves us with some existential advise. Not advise perse, but rather an inconvenient truth. It’s really up to the reader what the comic means to them.
In terms of the art, McKeever’s stylings are as strange as the subject matter. McKeever’s traditional style is this uneven, asymmetrical character and environment design that syncs up with the unconventional storytelling. In his more recent work, McKeever has incorporated some photorealistic character designs, most notably of protagonist Chomsky here in Miniature Jesus. While placing himself (at least visually) within the book as the physical model for Chomsky, McKeever draws him in a highly detailed, realistic manner; Chomsky looks like portraitized in most panels. As the story develops, McKeever jumps back and forth between the photorealistic style. Chomsky begins to look more like the other characters: less detailed, somewhat cartoony, and relatively deranged.
By Mariko Tamaki and Jillian Tamaki
Groundwood Books
Within the seemingly simple stories that the Tamaki cousins produce is layer upon layer of relatable emotion. This One Summer, the 2014 follow up to their critically praised Skim (2008), we are reminded of what it’s like to be young, curious, and confused. Rose and her family visit the family cottage every summer for a period of ten days, where she and her cottage buddy Windy spend almost every waking moment together. They swim down by the beach, explore the northern Ontario landscape at night, make frequent trips to the local convenience store for twizzlers and horror films, and generally converse about things that adolescent girls do. It’s a contemporary coming-of-age story that does not involve a hero’s quest, and the results of This One Summer benefit greatly from breaking away from that genre mould.
One of the things I love most about the Tamaki cousins’ stories is how many small events are left unresolved. Some sort of argument or event will ensue, and just as you are anticipating something to happen, the following page moves forward to a later time. This gives the story a fragmented feel, which in turn provides the story with a more realistic edge. Rarely in life is anything so neatly concluded or resolved, and so the book takes on this mentality many times over.
I’m a self-professed film geek, so the referencing of various horror films in This One Summer (not just the mention of them or the DVD covers, but even some actual frames from the films are drawn into the comic!) was an obvious positive in my eye. On a more critical note, the juxtaposition of the horror films against the drama of Rose’s family life is an exquisite literary move on writer Mariko Tamaki’s part. Rose wants to deal with and work through her family’s pain but her parents run away from it, so Rose finds comfort in engaging with the horror present in the films she indulges in.
On the art side, This One Summer is by far one of the finest looking books from last year. Jillian Tamaki paints with delicate and precise strokes, in an offbeat B&W colourization; it is more of a dark purple and cream white than the traditional black and white. All of her characters are distinctly drawn and have features unique to themselves. No one character, no matter how minor, looks or feels insignificant. Each has their own personality and was carefully crafted. Tamaki’s environments are also expertly crafted; the cottage surroundings and the interiors of the cottages themselves are highly realized and feel as though they are places that I myself have been to. There is an obvious attention to detail here and thus, Tamaki wins the award for best b&w art of 2014 in my books.
This One Summer is the rare comic that doesn't fall into the plasma pool of cliche's and melodrama, instead opting for quiet, relatable moments. As I closed the book, I was reminded of the mixed feelings of leaving a cottage after having spent a week there; kind of like seeing a distant friend every once in a while, and never wanting to part ways with them, even though you know you inevitably must.
As I hope you’ve learned, there are many different types of stories with which one can create in the comics medium that do not have to include superheroes or superheroic antics. It’s no secret that the books I write of here have some sort of comment about life or otherwise critique of humanity. Not all non-superhero comics are this way, but I’m personally more invested in comics that having something to say both artistically as well as philosophically. I will leave you with an honourable mentions list of other non-superhero comics that I’d love to one day write about! Thanks for reading!
Honourable mentions:
- Pride by Brian
K. Vaughn and Nico Henrichon
- The Milkman Murders by
Joe Casey and Steve Parkhouse
- Punk Rock Jesus by
Sean Murphy
- The Weirdo Years: 1981-’93
by Robert Crumb
- Butcher Baker, The
Righteous Maker by Joe Casey and Mike Huddleston
- Other Lives by
Peter Bagge
- Seconds by Bryan
Lee O’Malley
- American Virgin by
Steven Seagle and Becky Cloonan
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